Art thou persuaded, for a moment cool,

That nature made thee slave, and mark'd thee fool,
That what we won by hardy war, was given,
That non-resistance is secure of heaven;
That persecution in our infant state,
Was nursing kind compassion in the great;
That emigration was not to secure
Our liberties, but to enslave the more;
That charters, privileges, patents, powers,
Were ours till now, and now no longer ours;
To claim exemption by the charter seal,
Will rashly violate the common weal;
Juries are nuisances, and traffic worse,
And to be blind, sagacity of course;
The stamp and land tax are as blessings meant,
And opposition is our free consent;

That where we are not, we most surely are,
That wrong is right, black white, and foul is fair;
That Mansfield 's honest, and that Pitt's a knave,
That Pratt's a villain, and that Wilkes 's a slave;
That godlike Temple is not greatly good,
Nor Bute a rigid jacobite by blood;

That sordid Grenville lately is become
The patron of our liberties at home,

(For whom, now hear me, gods! be hell inflamed,
And murderers of their country doubly d――d)
Now stretch thy pliant faith, adopt this creed,
And be a J-r-d Ing-rs-1 indeed;

If thou art wretched, crawling in the dust,
Condemn'd, despised, and herded with the just :
Frown, honest Satire! menace what you will,
Rogues rise luxuriant, and defeat you still;
Fatigued with numbers, and oppress'd with gall,
One general curse must overwhelm them all:
But Ŏ ye vilest vile, detested few!

Eager, intent, and potent to undo;

Come out, ye parricides! here take your stand,
Your solemn condemnation is at hand;
Behold your crimes, and tremblingly await
The grumbling thunder of your country's hate;
Accursed as ye are! how durst ye bring
An injured people to distrust their king?
Accursed as ye are, how could ye dare,
To lisp delusion in your monarch's ear?
How do I laugh, when such vain coxcombs lower,
Some grave pretence of dread, from lawless power;
To hear a scribbling fry, beneath my hate,
Adopt the fraud, and sanctify deceit;

With mean importance, point regardless stings,
To aid injustice, menace mighty things;
Nay to such height of insolence they 're flown,
The knaves crave shelter underneath a throne;
A throne all-gracious, such is George's praise,
Nor shall oppression blast his sacred bays.

Witness, ye fathers! whose protracted time,
Fruitful of story, chronicles the clime;
These howling deserts, hospitably tame,

Erst snatch'd ye, martyrs, from the hungry flame;

'T was heaven's own cause, beneath whose sheltering power, Ye grew the wonder of the present hour;

With anxious ear we've drank your piteous tale,
Where woes unnumber'd long and loud prevail;
Here savage demons, sporting with your pains,
There boding mischief in a Stuart reigns;
Mark the glad era, when prevailing foes,
The state's fell harpies, doubling woes on woes,
Had wing'd destruction-vengeance slept no more,
But flung the tyrant from the British shore:
Learn hence, ye minions! reverence to the law,
Salvation died not with the great Nassau.
And shall such sons, from such distinguished sires,
Nurtured to hardships, heirs of all their sires,
Shall they, O pang of heart! thus tamely bear,
Who stalk erect, and toss their heads in air?
Let beasts of burthen meanly woo the chain,
We talk of masters with a proud disdain.
"Prythee forbear, rash youth! conceal thy fears,
A modest silence best becomes thy years;
Submit, be prudent-in some future hour,
You'll feel the iron-gripe of ruthless power:
Truce, spawn of phlegm! thy frozen heart conceal,
Benumb'd, unerring, and unapt to feel ;
No deed of glory can that soul entice,
Involved in adamantine walls of ice;
Within that bosom is a nook so warm,
That vice or virtue kindles to a storm?
Could nature ever lure thee into sin?
Or bursts of passion thaw the frost within ?
Thou happy cynic! still thy senses lull,
Profoundly cautious, and supinely dull;
And should some hero start his rash career,
Eccentric to thy lazy, drowsy sphere;
Be wondrous wise, thy frigid temper bless,
That never wrought thee to a bold excess:

Call truth a libel, treason, honest zeal,
So strange is virtue, and so few can feel;
Call Churchill blockhead, Freedom, madness, rage,
Call injured Wilkes a monster of the age;
To make me blest, unite this lay with those,
And then, then kindly rate yourselves my foes.

Fop, witling, favorite, stampman, tyrant, tool,
Or all those mighty names in one, thou fool!
Let mean ambition, sordid lust of pride,
League thee, vile pander! to a tyrant's side.
Sport with thy country's groans, and be the first
To stab the bosom which a traitor nursed;
Rifle the womb, and on those bowels prey,
To plague mankind, that spawn'd thee into day;
Be eminent, thy little soul exert,

And call forth all the rancor of thy heart:
But should the eye of merit on thee lower,

(Though lowly crush'd beneath the wheel of power,) Thou art my pity, monster! I forgive,

And beg one only curse, that thou mayst live.

Where lies our remedy, in humble prayer ?
Our lordly butchers have forgot to hear;
"Tis rank rebellion, rashness to complain,
And all submission tighter tugs the chain:
Go ask your heart, your honest heart regard,
And manumission is your sure reward;
Would'st thou be blest, thy sovereign pride lay by,
To tyrant custom give the hardy lie;

Yon shag will warm thee, in thy country fleece
Sleeps independence lined with balmy peace;
Would'st thou be blest? be diligent! be wise!
And make a chaste sufficiency suffice:

Ye lovely fair! whom heaven's blest charms array,
The proud Sultanas of some future day;
Sweet as ye are, complete in every grace,
That spreads angelic softness o'er the face;
Go ply the loom-there lies the happy art,
By new avenues to attack the heart;

With labors of your own, but deck those charms,
We'll rush with transport to your blissful arms.
Amid this wreck- -from all aspersions clear,
Nay blush not, Peter, honest truths to hear;
Base adulation never stain'd my lay,
But modest merit must be brought to day;

What though thy great desert mounts far above
The mean expression of thy country's love;
In praise like thine the rustic muse will soar,
Then damn'd to endless silence sing no more.
"With great contempt of power, alone to stand,
Thy life, and spotless honors in thy hand;
To wage unequal wars-and dare the worst,
And if thy country perish, perish first;
With pious vigilance the state to guard,
And eminent in virtue, shun reward;
No force of avarice warps thy steady heart,
To meanness, falsehood, or dishonest art;
A tyrant's mandate, thy supreme disdain,
Our last, best bulwark in a Scottish reign."
These are the honors we to fame consign,
Nay blush not, Peter-these are surely thine.

To close dread sovereign at whose sacred seat,
Justice and mercy, spotless maidens meet;
George! parent! king! our guardian, glory, pride,
And thou, fair regent! blooming by his side!
Thy offspring pleads a parent's fostering care,
Reject not, frown not, but in mercy spare;
Besprent with dust, the lowly suppliant lies,
A helpless, guilty, injured sacrifice:
If e'er our infant efforts could delight,
Or growing worth found favor in thy sight,
If warm affection due returns may plead,
Or faith unshaken ever intercede;

With modest boldness we thy smiles demand,
Nor wish salvation from another hand;

Depress'd, not helpless, while a Brunswick reigns,
Whose righteous sceptre, no injustice stains.

LINES ON THE ACCESSION OF GEORGE II.

WHERE thick embowering shades, and clustering trees, Form soft recess, and shed poetic ease; Inarching boughs embrown the silent way, Fan breezy cool, and half exclude the day: A moss-clad rock here spread its bulky base, Where the lithe ivy winds its close embrace; Beneath its slope-grey parent of the wood, A mouldering oak, grotesque and naked, stood;

From its chafed root, a gurgling rivulet strays,
And through the forest worms its sparkling maze :
Here his sluiced eyes, the pensive Pollio led,
And lo his anguish utter'd," George is dead."

The swift wing'd breeze, excursive, wafts the sound,
The cloud-topp'd forest nodded to the ground;
The bellying clouds, with sable skirts advance,
And a dun horror shrouds the blue expanse;
Slow swells the blast, the transient gusts arise,
And grumbling thunders roll along the skies;
The storm collects, in dusky clouds array'd,
And brooding tempest frowns the deepest shade.
Involved in glooms, reclined upon the oak,
In faltering accents, Pollio sobb'd and spoke.

"Lower on, ye sables, shed a tenfold gloom!
George is deceased, and earth is but his tomb;
The heavens were deaf, when Albion pour'd her cries:
Ah fruitless anguish! ah relentless skies!
War on, ye elements, ye tempests sweep
The heaving bosom of the hoary deep;
Ye trembling forests hide your faded green,

May darksome horrors wrap the saddening scene;
Ye verdant walks a sicklier face shall wear,

No flowers, to breathe soft incense through the air;
Their savory banquets shall the flocks refrain,
Nor crop the velvet of the pasturing plain;
No fostering showers from hence refresh the lawn,
No pearly blessings cheer the parching dawn;
The widow'd groves lost foliage shall deplore,
And balmy zephyrs gather sweets no more:
Thy George, O Albion! Heaven declines to spare,
Bestow'd too long to prevalence of prayer;
Albion! thy parent dies!-as bless'd a mind,
As heaven could furnish to exalt mankind;
Religion, mercy, peace, his steps attend,
And numerous virtues all their lustres lend;
His guide was truth, benevolence his road,
His life, one effort of redundant good;
No sword of violence protects a crime,
Stains the clear page, or dims the golden time;
No vice illustrious stalk'd behind the king,
No shelter'd folly fledged beneath his wing;
No ravenous grasp, no lawless lust of power,
Sullies his life, or stains a single hour;